


Counterpoint

by Potoo



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: Developing Relationship, First Time, Historical, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 10:07:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5739589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potoo/pseuds/Potoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starting in the year 1658, this story recounts the relationship of Philippe d'Orléans and his favorite lover, the Chevalier de Lorraine, chronicling the many hardships in their way. In the court of Louis XIV, there is no honesty, no certainty, no sincerity -  no truth but the one you make for yourself.</p><p>  <i>Counterpoint. Noun. Origin: contrepoint, French. A melody added to an existing one, especially one added to provide harmony whilst each retains its simultaneous identity.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Summer 1701

**Author's Note:**

> An ambitious project spanning several years. We'll see how far I'll come, but I have the last two chapters written - I just need to write what comes between... The last two chapters can stand relatively indepedent - so you won't need to fear this fic will turn out to be incomplete. If I notice I'm not inspired anymore, I'll just upload them. ;) 
> 
> Lots of thanks @kaasknot who has done and is continuing to do amazing beta-ing for this.
> 
> -
> 
> Note on the Underage warning: While the characters are initially younger than 18 (16 and 17 respectively), they were _not_ considered underage by their era.
> 
> \- 
> 
> Will be explicit in later chapters.

Whenever he makes some coin with his gambling, he goes to the whorehouse. There's one woman there he likes best who goes by the name of Juliette. She's thirty or so and thin as a rake, but she's cheap and talkative, two qualities the Chevalier appreciates about whores. And she always lets him stay for a while even after the deed is done: she does not have many clients. 

She's doing her toilette as he is lazing around on her bedbug-ridden mattress. They've both seen better days, that mattress and him. The air is thick with the disturbing odor of decay and sweat.

“Have you heard?” she asks while she's applying rouge to her cheeks. The Chevalier would never call her 'pretty', but she has beautiful black curls and pale eyes. It's enough for him. “The Duke of Orléans died yesterday.” 

Of course he's heard. He drank himself into a stupor yesterday, hoping to forget, but it made no difference.

“It's sad, if you ask me. I liked him better than his brother the King,” she says in her soothing voice.

“Hm. They were both great fools in my opinion,” the Chevalier replies. 

“You were at court for a while, were you not?” she asks. “Did you know the Duke?” 

The Chevalier makes a displeased sound and buries his face in a pillow. Juliette takes the hint and shuts her mouth. 

There's silence for a few moments until he raises his head and speaks again. “Do you fall in love with your clients, Juliette?” 

Juliette turns around to regard him warily, but it seems that she sees something in his face that pushes her to tell the truth. She shakes her head. 

“There's some I like better than others. Those that still have their pretty teeth, and those that don't hit me. You're decent, I like you, Chevalier. But I've never loved a client, no.” She makes a face at the thought. “No whore ever does, trust me. When a girl says that, she's lying through her teeth.” 

He believes her. They're women, after all, more prone to lies and deception than any other creature on this planet. Maybe with the exception of his own self. 

Juliette shrugs. “They make your day better, yes, but...” she adds. “...so do the shoemaker's clients, and he doesn't love them either. You understand, do you not? If you were a whore, you wouldn't love a client either. It's business.” 

For almost forty years, the Chevalier has tried hard not to think about just this. He hasn't always succeeded. Has he loved Philippe? At times, he believes he did. Other times, probably not. Has it mattered to Philippe? No. Philippe did not care. Philippe had fallen for him and never quite gotten to his feet again. If not for his second wife, that sow, he would still be at court. He would have held Philippe's hand on his death bed yesterday. He would have been there for him. 

Does he still love Philippe, he wonders. 

He doesn't know. Instead, he remembers.


	2. I. Winter 1657/1658

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter is mostly "teenage boy whining, trying to come to grasps with having Emotions (tm)", you've been warned.

When he asked his mother why they were leaving the King's court, her answer was prompt. 

“Your father returns from war, and this time he will stay in France for a long time. Well, at least until our glorious monarch has need of his military prowess in the next war. But until then, we will live in our ancestral seat.” 

His mother detested the permanent flight from one royal palace to the next, he knew, always following the King without enthusiasm. She was not a woman made for courtly life, he'd always thought. Her face was as brutish as her manners, her understanding of delicate affairs lacking; when a problem presented itself, her solution was to attack it head-first. That was not the way of the court, where a hidden smile had as much – if not more – power than a hidden dagger. But that, she had never understood. His only sister had thus remained unmarried despite the five years they had lived at court. Poor Nanette was neither ugly nor unkind, but their mother was so clumsy in her marriage negotiations that all hope was lost. Now she was already eighteen and mother wanted to ruin her marriage chances further by packing up and sending everyone into a self-imposed exile to that boring, lazy village someone had once mistakenly named a 'county' and his mother mistakenly named a 'home'. 

No, Philippe de Lorraine thought, he would not accept this. He lived among splendor and nobles, not among peasants and pheasants in a wasteland, and would continue to do so. 

“But what of my admission to the _Ordre de Saint-Esprit_ , mother? Cardinal Barberini has agreed to admit me within the next month, yet if we shall flee the court due to your female foolishness, surely this will not come to happen!” He would not let knighthood, now that is was so close, slip out of his fingers. It had taken many months of hushed organization to achieve as much as a private conference with the Cardinal, and many more months to convince him that he would make a worthy knight. Philippe de Lorraine had already begun to style himself Chevalier in his most private thoughts. The rank was as much a dream as a promise to further his fate. He would one day become the most admired man at court, he was certain of that, and this knighthood was only the first step on his way to glory. His mother had to know that she could not take this from him! 

“Your admission will have to wait, then,” she replied, and her son felt all color drain from his face. “I am certain these knights will make do without a fifteen years old brat.” 

“But mother-” he tried to complain, but his mother interrupted him coolly. She regularly did so – he was only the second son, after all. It was his brother who held her attention as the heir, it was small Charles who held her attention as her youngest child, and it was Nanette who held her attention as her only daughter. He and his other surplus brothers could count themselves lucky if she so much as glanced in their direction. 

He was not bitter about this, he told himself every day. He was fifteen and a man grown and had a wide circle of friends, all of whom admired him greatly. His mother was a hag whose affection he did not wish for in any case. 

“No _but_. Pack your possessions. We will leave next Monday. You have two days to bid goodbye to this place. Tell Alphonse and Raimond.” 

Contritely, he inclined his head with as much restraint as he could muster and left his mother's room to find his younger brothers. The deed took the better part of an hour. After delivering his message, though, he did not return to his family's rooms and instead wandered the halls of the palace by himself. 

She could not separate him from court, or the court from him; it was preposterous! If only he were a bit older. Then she could not order him around thus. Or if his father was here! But then again, he did not know what his father would say. Mayhaps his father would be just as stern and unyielding. He had seen him maybe ten times in his life, only for a week or so each time, when he had come home to France from fighting the King's war. He remembered his father to be fond of wine and music; no other memories would come. His father probably didn't even remember his face. 

Caught in his gloomy, inescapable thoughts, he found his feet had brought him to the very end of the public parts of the palace. There were no card-tables in this part of the palace, no quiet laughter and no heavy smell of smoke; only the guardsmen patrolling diligently. The royal family would not be far off, the King and his brother and his mother. They had paid the Palais-Royal a visit today; as always after such a visit, there was gossip concerning a possible royal marriage. De Lorraine did not believe this likely, however. The Queen Mother would never allow an English princess in exile to marry the King. The King himself did not show much interest in her either, it was said. Henriette of England would never be part of the royal family, of that he was sure, or of the court. And neither would he. 

After a particularly mean-looking guardsman stared at him menacingly, he decided to take his melancholic rumination elsewhere. De Lorraine had turned around and decided to walk along a corridor that would bring him to the gardens, inhospitable as they were in December, when the greatest door in the hall swung open, accompanied by an agitated voice. 

“––let that happen! Mother says she would not–” He stopped in his tracks and observed the King exiting his rooms, followed by his brother, four guardsmen, and a man he recognized as an aspiring musician leafing through sheets while trying to keep up. 

The King looked very fine. He was clothed in a rich gold coat of brocade, with threads of green silk arranging intricate patterns from his sleeves to his chest. His piercing regal gaze was directed at his brother. His brother looked even finer; almost as fine as de Lorraine himself, he would admit readily. Where the King's gaze was piercing, Monsieur's was alluringly soft; where the King's rigid bearing seemed aloof, Monsieur's more relaxed stance was inviting. Both posessed beauty, but the one's nature was of ice and the other's of a warm hearth. 

“It does not matter what mother says,” the King replied, cutting off his brother. They passed de Lorraine and he bowed deeply, but kept listening. The King sounded less reserved than usually. If he was forced to describe the royal tone, he would have to choose 'snappish'. “I am the King! _Her_ King! I have been King for over a decade! Mother has no say in who I love, and I will not permit it!” 

“She has only your best interests in her heart,” Monsieur replied; his words suggested a more tempered approach, but his voice was just as discomposed as that of his brother. “Just accept her wishes and take that hussy out of your thoughts! Mazarin's niece, _truly_ , brother?! You know you cannot marry her!” 

“I know that!” the King snapped back. De Lorraine winced as he followed them inconspicuously. “This is not about Marie, it is about Mother. She cannot be allowed to decide for me.” 

“Your Majesty!” de Lorraine heard himself calling out before he was quite aware of his mouth moving. He immediately regretted the act when the conversation stopped dead and both royal brothers turned sharply to look at him, their movements and disapproval as one. The musician had not noticed the small procession had stopped yet and walked into a guardsman. Music sheets flew through the air while the King stared at de Lorraine for agonisingly long seconds. 

“Indeed I am,” the King replied in a very different voice from that he had used with his brother. “I do not recall your title, though. I assume a foreign monarch, from the presumptuous way you think you can speak to me? The King of Spain, perhaps?” His tone was cutting and oozed deprecation. Beside him, Monsieur looked at de Lorraine warily. His eyes were large, filled to the brim with curiosity and something he could not name. De Lorraine had to look away from him quickly; the sight made his heart beat faster, his throat dry up and his countenance grow flustered. He needed to concentrate on the King, not on his brother, no matter which he more desired to look at. “Yes, I believe I see a _de Guise_ in you. What is it, little Guiseling?” the King added, obviously displeased by his silence.

He took the deepest possible bow while staying on his own two feet. “My utmost apologies for addressing you,” he mumbled rather than spoke and raised his gaze to find the King looking at him without much appreciation. “If you would but gift me with one minute of your time, I should be eternally indebted.” 

The King raised his eyebrows. There was the shadow of a conceited smile playing around his mouth. 

“I am a son of the Count of Harcourt, Your Majesty, and cousin to the Duke of Lorraine, exiled from the Lorraine as he may be. But more importantly, I am a member of your court, and gladly so. This, I would remain until my last days on earth. But there are fiends who would not permit me this simple joy, chief among them mine own mother. Your Majesty, I will turn sixteen in January, but if she plucks me out of your palace now... I fear my chances of returning will be slim. Yet all the power of my parents pales in contrast to yours. One word from you, and I would be delivered.” 

The King continued to regard him. De Lorraine took another deep bow. He could feel the sharp burn of tears welling up in his eyes. It had been quite foolish and impulsive to raise his voice in the first place. The King did not even know his name! Surely his Majesty would have no sympathy with him and he would be forced to return to the horrifying countryside where he would just as surely die of boredom. Oh, and the King still had not spoken! He raised his head again and the King's shadowy smile was still where it had been a minute ago. The expression suddenly infuriated him. It was unjust that his plight should be regarded so carelessly! Louis XIV of France might be a king, but did he have de Lorraine's otherworldly beauty, sharp intellect, profound wisdom and unshakeable dependability? It was hardly possible! Why then would the King not accept his obvious superiority and do as de Lorraine wished?! 

“I will think about your humble request,” the King finally answered and waved a hand. It was an obvious dismissal. De Lorraine refrained from biting his lower lip nervously and bowed one last time. 

The brothers were out of sight within seconds, screened by the guardsmen, but he could hear another phrase before that, too, was denied to him. 

“He should not have spoken, Louis, but his words rang true,” said Monsieur, and the sweet taste of victory spread over de Lorraine's tongue. 

One week later, his mother and all of his siblings left the royal court indefinitely. There was talk of insults traded between them and Mazarin. Philippe de Lorraine received a small monthly sum from his father henceforth, until the day he would find himself a place in a household at court with a regular income. Two weeks later, he was knighted in a small ceremony along with two other noblemen. They all swore their vows and kissed the Cardinal's ring and then went to celebrate Christmas mass as _chevaliers_. Three weeks later, the court began to know him in earnest. Not as a son of a count this time, he imagined, but as a knight; not as a scrawny and pathetic child, but as a man. Four weeks later, the new year had come and gone. Frost colored the palace windows a dreary blue, and his nameday passed with a small celebration. The new Chevalier de Lorraine had never been happier, or so he believed. 

He thought of his conversation with the King many times during these weeks, but his thoughts always seemed to waver from his Majesty to his Majesty's brother. They had not exchanged words, but the Chevalier imagined that Monsieur's gaze had spoken clear enough. Monsieur had admired him, he was certain, his beauty and probably his determination as well. That was only right, of course, as the Chevalier felt himself entitled to _everyone's_ admiration. But to be admired by the King's very own brother... it spread such a warm pride through the Chevalier's limbs that he could hardly breathe whenever he thought of their encounter. He even imagined himself by Monsieur's side a few times, the King's brother in his lap, lazily kissing up his neck and whispering words of veneration in his ears. The Chevalier had already experienced some touches by serving girls and stableboys, as his needs had driven him further and further from his own hand, but these touches paled compared to the mere thought of the King's brother melting around him. It was lust only, he was certain of that. There lay no tender feelings beneath, no emotions apart from an overwhelming need – to touch; but also to own the King's brother in such a way. It was pure power, power over the court. As the lover of the King's brother, everyone would need to respect him and admire him, as much as they admired the King's _maîtresses_. It would take him one step further to his goal, and with Monsieur's looks, would not require too large a sacrifice from him.

One chilly January afternoon, he was playing cards. It was of good sense to reside in the Palace of Tuileries during the winter. Paris was warmer than all the summer residences of his Majesty combined. However, the Chevalier was not happy to leave the Palace; Paris might be warmer than the countryside, but it was also more disgusting. Step one foot outside and beggars crowded around, filthy creatures made of greed and disgusting smells. No, he preferred to stay inside. He played cards with three of his friends: Armand, the Count of Guiche and son of the Duke of Gramont, a member of Monsieur's household; Michel, a duke's natural son who had married a baron's heiress, responsible for serving the Queen Mother's food; and Raffael, an Italian noble who belonged to the entourage of Mazarin's nephew, Jules, the Duke of Nevers, newly made leader of the musketeers. They were a fine array of friends to have, with different spheres of influences, and the Chevalier tried his best to keep them close to him. With twenty-one years, Armand was the oldest among them, but the other two were closer to the Chevalier's own age. 

“I do hope his Majesty will allow the court to leave for St. Germain soon,” Michel commented during the game. “I feel like I have not hunted in years.” 

“Dearest Michel,” Raffael replied, “if you miss the hunt so much, let me advise you to change your strategy. Instead of animals, hunt for lovers; instead of deer, hunt for a whispered _dear_. It is far more rewarding either way.” 

“But my wish for hunting trophies will not be slaked by such armorous conquests,” Michel complained and played a seven of clubs. The Chevalier cursed inwardly. “Or do you propose I hang my lovers up on a wall to gaze at them proudly?” 

That imagery reaped him a chuckle from the whole table. 

“There are other ways to boast of your prowess than hunting trophies,” Raffael answered calmly. There was an air of quiet success around him; the Chevalier felt compelled to ask him if he spoke from experience. Raffael grinned. “More subtle. Like this. Let me merely say that is with royals as it is with other men: the son is more like the father than you'd think.” 

“You cannot be serious!” Michel exclaimed. A few heads of other nobles turned towards him and Armand shushed him, slapping his shoulder. The Chevalier narrowed his eyes. He had heard gossip about the preferences of Louis XIII, yet never something concrete. The old king had probably enjoyed the company of young men far better than his heir, though. 

“I have a feeling you do not speak of his Majesty, although your words imply it,” the Chevalier said in a far calmer voice. He played an ace and everyone else groaned while he collected their money. “The King's love for women is well-known around the whole world, even as far as the Empire of Japan they tell their girls to beware his gaze. He is not like Louis XIII, not in this.” 

“I do not speak of his Majesty, you are quite correct,” Raffael said as he took the cards to shuffle them anew. He left it at that. 

Armand sighed. “Do not boast of achievements that are not yours, my dear friend. It is true that Monsieur has been seduced by an Italian, but this was not you.” He distributed the cards. The Chevalier found that with this turn of conversation, he could not quite concentrate on his cards as well as he wished. “I have readied Monsieur's horse for riding out with Mazarin's nephew more often than I can count in the last week, and as I am sure you've noticed, riding out in Paris during winter is usually less than entertaining. They seek some privacy. Although that need is beginning to falter; I have interrupted them during a very inappropriate action just the other day.” A smirk accompanied his words. 

“How quaint,” the Chevalier drawled, the indifference in his voice nothing but an act. Mazarin's nephew, the Duke of Nevers, was not an ugly man by all means: he had a foreign but handsome look, with aquiline features, and always cut a splendid figure in his waistcoats. It was not difficult to imagine them tumbling into bed together. It was more difficult to keep his prick down at the thought. “And he likes it?” 

It was Raffael who answered. “My Duke certainly seems to think so. He talks of nothing else when he is in his cups. 'Philippe is clumsy and shy,' he claims, 'but sweet and eager.'” 

Mazarin's nephew called him by his given name? The Chevalier felt his mouth fall open. Michel, too, could hardly hide his surprise. “ _Philippe_?!” he exclaimed, but was quieter when he continued. “Such honor is bestowed on the Duke?” 

Raffael merely shrugged. Armand made a displeased noise in the back of his throat. “Wholly undeserving, if you ask me. He does not know Monsieur; he does not know what Monsieur needs.” 

“And you do, hmm?” Raffael retorted. 

Armand made another displeased noise, but his smirk did not falter. “Better than the Duke of Nevers. He is but a parvenu.” 

“You are jealous of his influence,” the Chevalier tried to return to the conversation before Raffael could be offended on his master's behalf. “We all know you're a good friend of Monsieur, but naturally his lover is far more important to him. There is nothing you can do but bear it, I suppose.” 

Armand looked at his cards for a suspiciously long time before he answered. “There is _something_ ,” he said; Raffael and Michel both gasped, but the Chevalier did not quite understand his meaning. He was deciding whether to ask for clarification – an act that would no doubt be shameful, as the others had obviously understood everything – when the doors to the room swung open and Monsieur in the flesh entered, accompanied by two guardsmen. After protocol had been satisfied and the room had settled down again, he sauntered over to their table directly. His eyes swept over the small company before staying with Armand. 

“Has _Duchesse_ been watered?” he inquired of what the Chevalier assumed was his horse. Armand nodded. “Good. I wish you to ride with me today.” 

“With great pleasure, your Highness,” Armand replied. The smile on his face was blinding. He was handsome too, of course: all of the Chevalier's friends were. But now, he was even prettier, and Monsieur had eyes only for him. A tight ache spread in his stomach. He could not explain what it was or where it came from, only that it was very unpleasant; and that he knew exactly how to counteract it. 

“But look at the weather!” the Chevalier exclaimed. “It is frightfully grey and cold outside. How depressing to ride around in such gloom.” Before anyone could get a word in, he stood from his chair and gestured towards it. “Instead, your Highness might play a round with us, if it pleases him.” His fingers tapped the chair's backrest expectantly, and he looked straight at Monsieur's face, into his eyes. 

From somewhere far off, one of his friends began to object; that this had been a joke in bad taste, and that they would never presume to invite his Highness to their game, et cetera, et cetera. But the Chevalier blocked out this annoying noise completely as he concentrated on the face of the royal heir, his blood rushing hot and excited through his veins. Monsieur seemed to recognize him, showing the same curious and indescribable gaze he had regarded him with in the hallway weeks ago. The Chevalier smiled his most charming smile, showing off two rows of perfect white teeth – a shark's grin, his older sister used to say – and a mischievous glint in his eyes. Monsieur's features softened minisculy, almost imperceptibly. 

“It pleases him,” Monsieur replied without noticeable inflection and sat down in one smooth motion. The Chevalier pushed the chair back to the card table and after a moment of stunned silence all around, Monsieur took the cards that lay in front of him. “A bad hand,” he commented, “I see now this was merely a ruse to pass your bad luck onto me.” The Chevalier was startled momentarily, standing behind Monsieur, and did not know how to reply. Was he angered? He could not allow himself one single mistake when talking to this man; had this whole idea been a mistake? Beginning to bow in an apology, the Chevalier caught himself just in time to see the shy smile on Monsieur's lips, and recognized the words for the teasing they were. 

And teasing, oh, he could work with that. “It is my belief that there are no bad hands; every success only ever depends on how you use the cards our Lord graced you with.” His smile evolved into a sharp smirk. “If you do not see how to use these, I will gladly be of assistance.” He accompanied the words with leaning forward, until his hair brushed Monsieur's shoulder, and pointed at the jack of hearts. “This is the card you need to render Arma– the Count of Guiche's Eight harmless.” Obediently, Monsieur played the card. The other men around the table came to the conclusion that it was quite indecent for the King's brother to play with them, but even more indecent for them to ignore his presence in shock. It was Michel's turn, and he played his card almost without any hint of delay. The Chevalier stayed behind Monsieur's back, leaning forward, close enough to hear him breathing. His eyes darted to Armand, who looked far angrier than the Chevalier had ever seen a man; that fury served to make him look back to Monsieur quickly. His fingers were almost of the same white as the cards, a regal pallor that suited him well. The Chevalier felt his heart flutter. Lust only, he told himself; it was lust only that made his heart beat faster. How could a healthy young man not desire such a fair prince, after all? 

“I would play this one next,” Monsieur told him, and as he did so, he turned his head until they could look straight at one another again. The eye contact along with the warm breath on his cheek was so surprising that the Chevalier almost evaded it. Instead, he flushed bright red. 

“A good choice,” he commented feebly, although he had not even seen which card Monsieur had chosen. 

The game continued like that, with the Chevalier and Monsieur exchanging gazes, whispered words, blushes and shy smiles. The Chevalier felt more flustered than ever before, and for no good reason at all. This might be the King's brother, but that alone should not make him nervous: when the Chevalier had talked to the King, he had been far less nervous. The others played badly, trying to let Monsieur win, and Armand kept scowling at them, but that was something the Chevalier did not truly notice, too caught up in his own private game with Monsieur. 

They lost, despite the attempts of his friends to let them win; the hand had been just too bad, thoroughly disproving the Chevalier's hypothesis that no hand was too bad to win. His other game, though, the one he had played only with Monsieur, had the opposite result, he realized when Monsieur stood and nodded at him first and then at the others. 

“It has been a while since I have last tried my hands at cards... I hope that my skill has not proven too terrible to preclude a future invitation.” 

“Your Highness, your presence improves every game,” Raffael replied smoothly. They had all stood up the moment Monsieur had stood.

Monsieur smiled. “Armand, I do still require your presence. Will you accompany me to my rooms?” 

“Gladly,” Armand replied; the anger furrowing his brows quickly bled from his expression, and only the calm and cheeky man the Chevalier knew remained. “I wish you all an entertaining game without me.” 

Monsieur nodded at them again before turning around, and the Chevalier was sure it was not merely his imagination that his gaze lingered on him far longer than necessary. 

His two remaining friends spoke of nothing in particular for the remaining duration of two games; certainly not of the strange and forward way with which he had gained Monsieur's attention. Not about the inappropriate closeness either, although the Chevalier believed that as a _prince étranger_ , such intimacy lay within the unwritten rules of court decency. After their game they went to have dinner; and after the evening's entertainment, the Chevalier went to bed alone. For the first time in weeks, he regretted that fact. He decided there and then that he would much rather share his bed with someone; and that this someone was to be Monsieur. Everything made perfect sense. The Chevalier remembered Monsieur appearing at court in women's dresses; it was no wonder that he wanted to lie with men now that he was older. And the Chevalier could use that to his advantage. His face was his greatest asset, he considered himself fairer than any other man at court, and it should prove no problem to seduce Monsieur if even an _Italian_ could do it – Monsieur seemed to have low expectations. He would make a plan how to win his affections and end up in his arms and he would be able to demand the world from this rich and powerful lover. And Monsieur would not need to share his bed with such unworthy lackwits like the Duke of Levers anymore. 

He would only need to be able to speak to Monsieur without becoming endlessly, needlessly flustered. He had not succeeded in that this day; but that did not mean it was a hopeless endeavor. His heart would need to be steeled before they talked, that was all. His reaction to the prince's closeness had been very uncharacteristic; the Chevalier always knew what to say in every situation. To render him speechless by only a gaze! Seducing Monsieur would, perhaps, with this handicap, prove more difficult than it seemed. 

Still, he insisted, there were no tender feelings. This seduction served only to further his own agenda.

The next day, he found Armand in a corridor and promptly cornered him. Armand smiled sweetly, as if he had never been furious with the Chevalier. 

“You went to bed with Monsieur last night?” the Chevalier asked. He was incredibly blunt, yes, but his burning curiosity justified that. “Was it enjoyable?” 

Armand merely raised his eyebrows. “Oh, my sweet little Chevalier. I see your mother has done her best to pass her impeccably rude manners onto you.” The Chevalier could feel hot color rise in his cheeks, but he did not back down. 

“That is not an answer, Armand!” Armand's face seemed very ugly to him then, distorted and blotched. His cheeks seemed swollen, his skin uneven, his hair greasy and his eyes bulging. He was not worthy to even speak to the Chevalier, let alone ignite such an emotional reaction. 

“So outraged,” Armand scoffed. “But why? Whether Monsieur and I shared a bed does not matter to you. My dear...” Without asking, he took a strand of the Chevalier's hair between his fingers and let it rest there for much longer than he felt was necessary. “You are beautiful yourself, and as fierce as Monsieur likes his boys. I have not a single doubt that, if you so chose, you would succeed in seducing him. There is no need for this petty jealousy.” 

Biting down on the tip of his tongue lest he spit out something not fit for noble company, the Chevalier hesitated a moment before he replied. “An answer, Armand. Tell me.” 

Armand smiled and tossed his hair back over his shoulder. “Yes, then, and yes. I did, and it was thoroughly enjoyable, although he is quite inexperienced. But our Duke of Nevers was right: he is eager and sweet. It was all not-” 

But the world would never find out what it had not been, because the Chevalier had raised his hand, gripped Armand's arm tightly, pushed him against the wall and used his other hand to shove it on his mouth. In the stunned silence that followed, Armand did not even struggle. 

It had been an instinctual motion; overwhelming fury had moved his arms. The desire not to hear any more of this unworthy man wheedling his way into the place that should rightfully be his had been too strong. Being angry because of such a bagatelle was quite ridiculous, of course – what Armand said was true: if he wanted, he could make Monsieur succumb to his virtues with very little effort. _But that was not what it was about,_ another part of him objected. The fact of the matter was that his heart still jumped whenever he thought of Monsieur, and to look so directly into a face that had, just hours before, been kissing a mouth that should be his, and his alone... that was why he was angry, he realized. 

He let go of Armand almost immediately, but it was too late. The damage was done. 

As he stepped back and wiped his hand on his coat, Armand laughed shrilly. “Such a harsh reaction! Is something the matter? Do you not care for details?” 

The Chevalier could feel his lower lip quivering. _Everything_ about this was the matter. He barked out an offended “Be silent!” and retreated a few more steps, but Armand followed him. Suddenly it was him who was cornered. 

“Go to his chambers, ask for his company. He will not deny it to you. _I_ would not deny it to you.” Armand smiled one of his wicked smiles and the Chevalier kept himself from punching him with great difficulty. “Oh, I could accompany you there. It would certainly be entertaining, the three of us. Monsieur was so desperate for me, another-” 

This time, he could not hold himself back. In his outrage over such disrespectful words, he punched him. It felt immeasurably good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some historical notes: 
> 
> Historical correctness was attempted as best as possible, yet not achieved 100%. I fudged the Order of the Holy Spirit's admission rules to achieve better readibility. Having both of the main characters called “Philippe” would be a disaster, so the Chevalier must be a Chevalier already. However, he was historically a member of the OotHS, and that Order didn't reward knighthood to foreign princes such as a great-cousin of the Duke of Lorraine until they were 25... so keep this in mind. In fact, our Chevalier – along with his family – wasn't made a Chevalier until 1688, when he would've been 45 years old. That's obviously not show canon, so I feel justified waving this away. 
> 
> The de Guises were a very powerful French noble family, a cadet branch of the ancient European noble house of de Lorraine. (Fun fact: a current Austrian politician, Charles of Hapsburg-Lorraine, is the current head of the house Hapsburg-Lorraine, which was formed in the 18th century by merging the Austrian Hapsburgs and the patrilineal line of Lorraine!) The Guises were Dukes. The Chevalier de Lorraine is from a cadet branch – his dad was Count of Harcourt and Armagnac, among other titles – but still related to the ruling Duke of Lorraine, so he's a foreign prince. Nevermind the fact that until 1660, the Lorraine was under French occupation and the Duke of Lorraine in exile... 
> 
> Marie, a niece of Mazarin, was apparently the first love of Louis XIV. He loved her chastely, though, and did not touch her: but he did ask Mazarin for her hand. Naturally, it would have been highly inappropriate if she had become Queen, so she was instead married off and sent into exile to not tempt him further. (A bit drastic, but hey, it worked.) 
> 
> Philippe had three famous lovers: the Chevalier, of course; Philippe Jules Mancini, a nephew of Mazarin (what is it with these brothers and Mazarin's family, seriously), who was his first lover, apparently; and Armand de Gramont, comte de Guiche. Armand was a very interesting person; he kinda reads like an early Lord Byron. Apparently, he was Philippe's _and_ Henriette's lover and caused jealousies between them apart from being an early-modern playboy and general bro – before he died from pneumonia after crossing a river... but we'll see which role he'll play in this fic. ;) Armand's sister was also apparently a lover of Louis XIV. That family, man, that family.
> 
> -  
> I'd be delighted if you left a comment if you liked this (if you hated this, I'd be a bit less delighted, but still happy about a constructive comment!) :D Comments are the most efficient author-fuel. Seriously, this will be a long fic, and every comment you leave will improve the chances of me actually being able to finish it.


	3. II: Spring 1658

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another whiny teenager. Yay.

“She sings wonderfully; the high tones are like a drunk toad, the low tones like a dying goat.” 

The words sounded well-practiced, but Philippe still found himself grinning. He swirled the wine in his glass before taking a large sip. “She was not chosen for her vocal range, I believe.” 

The court was assembled in one of the larger rooms of the palace. A young woman, scarcely fifteen years old, stood in the middle; her melody – well, the shrill shrieks she named 'melody' – reverberated in the entire room. Philippe's brother looked enraptured with her, though. He was probably already deaf, Philippe assumed. However, with the King obviously pleased, it went without question that the rest of the court had to fake appreciation as well. 

Not the Chevalier de Lorraine, though. His words of mockery were sharp, although he was not courageous enough to speak them; he merely murmured them beneath his breath, just loud enough for Philippe to understand. 

“For what else are singers chosen? Surely not her beauty. She looks as if a carriage had run over her face. The horses even returned to stomp on her nose for good measure.” 

Philippe snickered at that, even though it was as unkind as it was undeserved. The girl was beautiful in a fragile way, he found, and could understand why his brother would bear her insufferable screeching to be able to look upon her. 

“Do not let your King hear that,” Philippe replied and turned to the Chevalier. He far succeeded the girl's beauty, in his opinion. With a mass of blond curls, high rosy cheeks, endlessly enrapturing eyes and plush lips, he looked fit to keep company with a whole herd of putti. Philippe would even consider him the most beautiful man at court – a difficult, competitive feat indeed. When their eyes met, Philippe could feel his hands beginning to sweat. The Chevalier looked away quickly. 

“Uhm,” the Chevalier said, but it seemed that he caught himself relatively quickly. “As long as you don't tell him, I will be safe. My fate is in your hands.” The Chevalier looked up again and Philippe felt himself smiling coyly; words, though, were escaping him at the mental picture the Chevalier's words evoked. 

“G-good...” he finally managed to reply after many silent moments had passed, the same moment the girl finished her aria. The King applauded her; everyone else did, too. Louis gesticulated for him to come join him. For once, his brother's entitlement to his attention was good for something: saving him from further making a fool out of himself. Philippe nervously smiled at the Chevalier; he got a smile in return, which made him smile a bit wider, until he arrived at his brother's side. 

His brother asked for his opinion on the singer. Philippe delivered a half-truth, complimenting her beauty and comparing her talents to that of Greek gods – he hoped Louis would think of Artemis, while Philippe found himself reminded more of Ares. When their lengthy discussion had ended, the court had dispersed and the Chevalier was gone. Philippe sighed in annoyance. His former nerviness seemed like a bad dream now; he would much rather continue his conversation with the Chevalier. Alas, he was nowhere to be seen, and all thanks to his brother who had so rudely demanded his attention. Instead of complaining, though, he asked his brother for dismissal and was granted it.

When he returned to his rooms, Armand was already waiting for him. He was reclining on a chaise longue, sleek as a cat and just as self-satisfied. He was infinitely charming, Philippe found. Many men were; certainly more than he had believed only a year ago. Since then, a lot had happened. A lot had changed. 

“How was the concert?” the Count asked. He stood up and was slowly closing in on Philippe. The picture of the cat became even more vivid, his movements predatory and graceful. “Julie is a sweet girl, but her voice is not. I hope you were not displeased.” 

Philippe thought of the small conversation with the Chevalier. “It was bearable,” he replied nonchalantly. “Although no thanks to Julie.” He evaded Armand's wandering hands and sat down on the end of his bed, taking off his shoes. Armand sat down next to him; his hands found their mark this time, crawling around his shoulders. Philippe turned to face him. “My brother, he...” 

Armand waited for a few seconds, but Philippe could say nothing else. Armand wouldn't _care_ for his worries. That Louis expected him to leave everything behind at a snap of his fingers; that he expected he could demand as much of his time as he wanted; that he expected him to act only if he thought it would benefit Louis... it was maddening. Every day, every waking second! There was no respite from Louis' entitlement to everything he had been, was and would be. Philippe stared at the bedspread for some moments. And it was not only his brother. Their mother did it too, and worse: she supported Louis' entitlement. Whenever Philippe complained to her of Louis' presumptuous behavior, it was 'he's your King' or 'it is his divine right'. Philippe could not hear it anymore. His brother, his mother, even Mazarin... they were all on Louis' side. Sometimes, it felt like nobody was on Philippe's side but himself. 

“Let's not talk about your brother now,” Armand said. Philippe realized he'd been right; the Count was not interested in his familial problems at all. He would accept it and move on. Armand was pleasing to look at, adventurous and witty; Philippe was certain he was in love with him, improper as it was. They kissed and Philippe managed to forget his brother for some hours. 

When the deed was done, he stood in front of the window and watched the fresh snow outside while Armand drowsed a few feet away. Philippe could not believe he had denied himself all of these pleasures for the first seventeen years of his life. It had been a blessed day indeed when Jules, Mazarin's nephew, had introduced him to this art. He had developed it further with a servant first and with Armand now, while Jules hovered around him diligently and was always ready to replace either of them. They were so sweet to him, all of them; open and direct with their affections in a way that made him feel–– if not loved, then appreciated. And for that, an experience he had had so rarely in his life, he could not help but love them back, even if he couldn't tell them all that lay on his heart. 

“What do you think of the Chevalier?” he asked Armand instead. He had talked to the Chevalier a few times after their card game and found him witty, charming and infinitely attractive. Armand's answer was a decidedly unhappy groan. 

“De Lorraine,” Philippe specified, in case his lover had not understood him. Another groan came forward, but this time followed by words. 

“An entitled brat.” Philippe turned to look at Armand, who had raised his head. He showed off his left cheek, which still sported a faint purple bruise where the Chevalier had punched him. It had been a funny story to hear Armand tell it, but Philippe doubted that their kerfuffle had been a source of much entertainment for either of the two. “Not worthy of even a single thought. I do not have anything against a proper fight, not me, but his performance was just pathetic. Starting a fight and then running away crying?” He shook his head. “He is a disgrace to this court.” 

Philippe shrugged. “He is pretty, though, is he not?” He did not believe that the Chevalier had run away crying. He was a man; neither boy nor woman, the Chevalier would not cry, no matter the pain. 

Armand snorted and sat up properly. “Pretty indeed, but haughty without reason and a coward. He styles himself a _chevalier_ , but he has gained that rank only due to his scheming, not due to his chivalry. Besides, he may boast of being the Duke of Lorraine's cousin, but that does not change the fact his parents are lower than the dirt beneath the boots of proper nobles like you and I.” Philippe looked at him pensively. Some of these things could not be refuted. “Furthermore, he is fond of gossip. If you let him into your life, everything will come out.” Armand fluttered his lashes. “Vague rumors are good for courtly life, but certain truths should be left to the imaginations of the courtiers, not retold in great detail. Truths like who you share your bed with. They must never know for certain; least of all your brother, or he might take it all away from you. You know how he looks upon Greek love and all who live it. No, Philippe. The Chevalier de Lorraine is not the kind of person you should honor with your attention. Promise me you won't.” 

Philippe did; and he kept his promise. It was much simpler either way. If he did not interact with the Chevalier, he would not be able make a fool of himself, after all. Besides, it meant the Chevalier could not reject his advances – Philippe had a feeling that he would not deal with a rejection well. 

The following weeks, he evaded the Chevalier as well as he could. The Chevalier, though, was not blind to this evasion. Sometimes, he approached him during public occasions; Philippe would be quick, then, to converse with others and leave the scene as inconspicuously as possible. A look of disappointment would come into the Chevalier's features whenever Philippe flew anew; those looks were almost enough to make him go back on his promise. February turned into March. Outside, the first blossoms adorned the stunted trees in the gardens around the Tuileries; inside, the hearths were slowly petering out and not ignited again. 

One day, as he was leaving his rooms, the Chevalier was waiting for him, right in front of his doors. The guard had kept him out, but he had obviously stood until Philippe emerged. It was a bad time, he found, and straightened his jabot. Before he could ask 'What do you want', though, the Chevalier beat him to it.

“I brought you a gift, your Highness,” he said and brandished a flower. “This year's first flower. From the outskirts of Paris, plucked by myself and none other. Will you accept it?” The flower looked the part of the year's first flower; it was sad and pale, a small daisy a horse had trod upon before it had been plucked. Philippe was flustered nevertheless. He found such a gift thoughtful and infinitely sweet. 

“I will not,” he replied in contrast to his true yearning. The Chevalier's expression deflated. Philippe had the sudden urge to apologize, but he resisted it. “I am not interested in further conversation with you, Chevalier de Lorraine.” A blatant lie, if he was honest with himself; he wanted to listen to him for hours. A dark shadow crept over the Chevalier's features. However, he accepted the rejection without argument. 

“What should I do with the daisy now?” he asked with such a forlorn voice that Philippe could not reign himself in. 

“Gift it to a woman you could see yourself marrying one day. A decent wife is man's greatest treasure.” That last sentence was an unthinking repetition from one of the many wisdoms Mazarin had shared with him and Louis when they'd been younger. Philippe did not find it very convincing anymore. 

The Chevalier took a bow – Philippe could not help feeling that it was subtly aggressive, insofar as a bow could be aggressive at all – and vanished without another word. 

After that encounter, Philippe did not see the young man again. It was early April when his brother decided to hold a large _fête_ in the form of a masked ball to celebrate Mazarin's successful return from a secret mission to England. Numerous nobles from France were invited, but few – apart from Louis' regular court – showed up. Thus, it was a small affair and felt relatively intimate, but with nobles from outside of court, the masks gained relevance. Philippe remembered earlier masked balls; he loved them, loved the splendor, the flowery fragrances in the air, the secretive smiles and furtive glances thrown around, the decadent clothes and expensive sweets that made these dances so alluring. 

And, oh, the dancing. It was the one thing his brother and he could agree on: dancing was one of life's greatest joys. During masked balls, the appropriate behavior one showed on normal balls could be left behind; and the shared belief in one's anonymity gave enough courage to do what the heart truly desired. Of course, there was no courtier whom Philippe did not recognize. But that truth was of little importance. What mattered was that everyone agreed that no true identities were revealed during this one night. A newly-married wife who danced with a man that was not her husband? Oh, why, she had thought it was her husband beneath his mask. And both her and the man she had shown favor to would be excused in everyone's eyes. 

Philippe drank when the festivities started. He had chosen a magnificent outfit for himself, red silk with heavy gold embellishments, but his mask did not serve to hide him well; it was merely a fine gold mesh. Several rooms had been prepared, and they were filled with courtiers. Mazarin was the only one who did not wear a mask; he stood in the middle of the largest room, with the train of his red robe dragging over the floor behind him. Courtiers flourishingly thanked him for his service to the crown before they joined the dancing. Philippe took another large sip of the glass he was holding and noticed to his chagrin that it was empty. When he motioned for another to be brought to him, a guest approached him instead of a servant. 

“Take mine,” he offered; Philippe recognized the Chevalier's voice immediately. His initial reaction was to balk. However, he was a Prince of France and would not run from a mere courtier; moreover, they did not know each other here. They were not Philippe of France, neither the Chevalier of Lorraine. They were merely two young men, one with a gold mesh over his face and the other with a plumed mask in the style of the Venetians. 

He accepted the wine and finished it with one sip. It seemed that the Chevalier had also imbibed quite decently already; his cheeks were very flushed and his voice was so smooth one could almost call it a slur. Philippe smiled without good reason. 

“Now you must pay back the favor,” the Chevalier demanded, in a voice so carelessly nonchalant as if their regrettable parting over the daisy had never occured. Philippe was confused what exactly he meant and stared at him dazedly until the Chevalier seemed to comprehend that he did not understand his meaning. He took a slight bow, followed by extending his hand. 

Blood rushed to Philippe's head. He was asking him for a dance! Extremely inappropriate, yet endearingly bold. Wholly out of the ordinary. It might not confuse courtiers to hear whispers of two men in bed together; but two men _dancing_ together at a formal event? That was something completely unbelievable. They would be shocked. Yet none could dare comment on it in the morning, not if the illusion of the masks was to survive. Even his brother would have to keep to sharp hints instead of openly denying him his pleasures, or so it seemed to his increasingly heady thoughts. 

He took the hand offered to him. It felt impossibly warm and soft, softer than any woman's hand. The Chevalier had likely never worked a day in his life, and neither been trained with muskets and swords. It was so soft that Philippe doubted he had so much as clasped his hands together once in his life – which precluded praying. Philippe wanted to keep holding it for a while and get used to the almost overwhelming emotions it woke within him, but before he could lose himself in the sensation, the Chevalier had already pulled him close. That was not any dance he recognized, and entirely indecent. The Chevalier raised their clasped hands and began to move. Stumbling along with the Chevalier leading, he became aware that he was dancing the woman's part – and, worryingly, that he had never danced these steps backwards before. Or this close. 

The Chevalier did not seem to mind his inexpert attempts to keep up with the dance, though. His gaze always stayed fixed on Philippe's face, never on their feet, not even when Philippe stepped on his foot with all his weight. The music was soon joined by countless scandalized whispers around them, but somehow, Philippe could hear neither well. All he heard was his own heart beating rapidly and the Chevalier drawing breath irregularly. The Chevalier's other hand was on his hip, and Philippe's free hand was gripping the other's arm tightly. He shifted it until it lay on his back, a less inconvenient position, and then he lost himself in their dance. Bright lights swirled around them, his blood was pounding hot and angry, the Chevalier's eyes were like an eternity of bliss laid out before him, and he could _smell_ him this close, an intoxicating scent that made him lose his senses. His feet moved of their own accord and Philippe could not say where they were, who they were or how long they were dancing; all he knew then was the Chevalier. 

He only woke from his reverie when a wooden panel pressed against his back and warm lips pressed against his mouth. A small part of Philippe wanted to protest, but it was lost in the wine and in the dance, and he pulled the Chevalier closer, the chaste kiss turning rougher and more desperate than either of them had anticipated. Philippe felt as if he could not breathe, but did not know if his head felt this heavy because of the wine or because of the Chevalier. 

Both, he thought dizzily when he gasped for air inelegantly. They looked at each other. Philippe felt as if he needed to say something, some words he did not know yet, in a language nobody had ever taught him, but he stayed silent. 

“I...” the Chevalier began, but apparently the silence was contagious, and he stopped himself. Slowly, Philippe started to hear the music around them again, and the people's whispers, and he wished he had never accepted the dance. The regret must show on his face: the Chevalier took a small step back, almost as if he was suddenly unsure. However, that was the last thing Philippe wanted, and he took a step forward, following the Chevalier, before he grabbed his hand without much finesse. 

“I want to-” Philippe began, but again the words escaped him. He did not know what he wanted, truly wanted, whether he wanted to keep this man close or to push him away, whether he wanted to sink into his embrace or ignore every breath he drew. Philippe knew what he _should_ want, but not what he _really_ wanted. He was helpless. Reason left him entirely when he looked at the face in front of him, so hopeful in its uncertainty. “I want you to love me,” the words finally spurted out of him, an embarrassing truth that came from his heart and not from his mind. He wanted this man in his bed and by his side, like the others. That did not have to include any feelings, but it would certainly be nice. 

A myriad of different expressions flit over the Chevalier's face. Philippe only recognized some, and those he did recognize – fear, candor, anger, fervor, relief – made no sense to him. Confused, he let go of the other's hand. The Chevalier took it back to himself as if the touch had burnt him, cradling it in front of his chest. “I don't,” he stammered, “I won't, I,...” 

Philippe opened his mouth to say something – anything – but he was not sure what he could say that would save the situation. 

The Chevalier, however, did come to a conclusion. “I don't want to love you,” he said, and his expression was dominated by such vulnerable fear that Philippe instinctively felt guilty. 

“If that is your wish,” Philippe heard himself replying, his voice cool and aloof. “I wish you a good evening, in that case.” He nodded and turned to go on unsteady feet, leaving the Chevalier where he stood. 

The rest of the night was immensly ruined for him. He drank some more wine and fell asleep in his chambers without undressing. The next day, his hair looked like a bird's nest and his eyes were red and puffy. Had he cried last night? It was very possible. He decided he would not care about the Chevalier at all anymore. Armand had been right about him from the start, and all the gentle gazes he had imagined receiving had been nothing but a vain delusion on his part. Philippe was not the kind to pursue a man after being obviously turned down. He was the King's brother; he could have any man in the court in his bed, he did not need to pursue one unwilling. 

His head hurt horribly. A servant brought him a flask of wine; that soothed the burning rawness of his throat, but only marginally. Philippe went back to bed after drinking and found that he had not cried enough last night, so he continued with that for a while. It was not fair! He could have anyone at court, but the one man whom he truly wanted did not wish to have anything to do with him! That never would have happened to Louis, he thought sullenly. If Louis had commanded the Chevalier to warm his bed, he would have obeyed without hesitation. He turned around and groaned when his body protested against the motion. No, it was him, it was his own fault; he had been foolish. Perhaps the Chevalier preferred women so strongly he could never sleep with a man. Perhaps he was not interested in pre-marital sex, which sounded a bit ridiculous in the context of the court with all its decadence and rottenness, but Philippe supposed some strongly religious people did live like that. Perhaps he did prefer men, but was merely disgusted by Philippe alone, despite all the advantages he could secure for him at court. All of this and more was possible, and he had thought himself entitled to this man's affection, despite the fact that they had talked little and knew each other less. Five conversations, not more, and none of them longer than a dozen minutes each. He had fooled himself into believing in a castle in the air; but he had a castle beneath his feet, and the way his chest hurt was the punishment for his daft dreams. 

A few days passed; he did not have to see the Chevalier, gratefully – the man seemed gone, although Philippe did not believe he truly was. His brother sent him an invitation for a stroll in the gardens, and Philippe accepted it gratefully. Every distraction was welcome. That was how he found himself beneath blooming apple trees, with half a dozen women by his sides and his brother talking incessantly about politics with but one of them. He recognized her as Laure, Mazarin's eldest niece and the sister of Marie, that silly girl Louis had lost his heart to. The other women were gaggling about this and that; the conversation was light enough that Philippe could comment on it from time to time without paying too much attention. Neither his brother's politicking nor their stupid babbling served to distract him well from his aching heart, though, and so he fell a few steps behind, lost in his thoughts. 

“Monsieur,” a female voice spoke. He looked at the woman; she had long blond curls that cascaded down her back very unfashionably. Her dress, too, looked as if it was from at least five years ago, although it fit her figure well. Despite these shortcomings, she was very beautiful, with a finely chiseled face. 

He raised an eyebrow, but did not respond. This was incredibly impolite, but he was not in the mood to be polite. 

“Monsieur, would you give me the honor of, uhm, sharing a few words,” she attempted again. Monsieur sighed dramatically, but let her take his arm. She did not speak until they had fallen a few more steps behind the rest of the group. He hoped she would not try to seduce him; pretty as she was, it would not work and would only be embarrassing for her. 

“I'll be blunt and hope you will forgive this. I do not expect you to know my name; it is Armande Henriette de Lorraine. I have arrived here a few days ago with my eldest brother to celebrate the Cardinal and enjoy his Majesty's ball, and we shall be on our way again in a few more days. My father is the Count of Harcourt, and my younger brother is the Chevalier de Lorraine.” 

That brought her Philippe's attention. He looked at her, truly looked at her, and found she spoke true; now that he knew of their relation, he realized she had the same kind of divine beauty, although not as well-pronounced as her brother. Before he could reply, though, she kept talking. “He is completely _miserable_. I am not certain how good a friend he is to you, but he kept talking of you for days. And he has not left his room. Our brother and I are deeply worried; this is not like him. When I resided at court, I never saw him in my mother's chambers; he was always out there, talking and laughing and charming everyone. We offered to take him back home with us, but that he would not have either.” 

Philippe made a small noise of acknowledgement and stared at the ground. Hearing this pleased him less than it should. “Why is he so miserable? Is he sick?” he asked. It would serve the Chevalier only right to fall sick after what he had done to Philippe, but he simply could not rejoice at the thought, no matter how spiteful he wanted to be. 

Armande Henriette regarded him for a few long seconds. 

“Uhm,” she said, seemingly a bit helpless. “You could say that. Is it not obvious why he is miserable?” 

Philippe shrugged and kept scowling at the ground. “We are not friends. I know him less well than I thought. You are his sister; it is not _I_ who should tell _you_ of his moods.” 

Incredibly, Armande Henriette sighed; her sigh was such a good impression of how Philippe's mother sighed in exasperation that he was frightened by it. “Monsieur, I would never wish to offend you. He is miserable because of _you_ , though. I do not know what transpired between you after that little dance you shared, and I do _not_ wish to know it, but whatever it was was not the right thing.” 

She took her hand off his arm and stopped; Philippe stopped as well. The sun was shining warmly, but Philippe felt cold. “It is too much to ask of you, I know; rather presumptuous of me. But if the two of you ever were friends-” _Never_ , Philippe wanted to reply but she just kept on talking, “for the sake of this friendship, I beg of you to talk to him, just once, and listen to what he has to say. If he says the wrong thing then, well, that is his own fault.” 

They looked at each other in silence. Armande Henriette did a hasty curtsy as if she had just now remembered who she was talking to. 

“Just once,” Philippe replied. She smiled. Her smile was exactly that of her brother's, and he realized he wanted nothing more than to see it again. Thanking him and excusing herself, Armande Henriette hastened to catch up with the herd of women crowding around his brother, leaving Philippe behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical note: The “secret mission to England” by Mazarin is a fictional re-invention of that time Mazarin negotiated a deal with Cromwellian England to fight Spain together in 1657. I'm not too sure Mazarin would actually leave the court and King alone for a whole year, though. I am fudging the timeline so hard, ha ha ha! 
> 
> -
> 
> As always, comments are _extremely_ appreciated c:


	4. III: Spring-Summer 1658

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 3 of "whiny teenagers in love", which is turning out to be the official subtitle of this fic, I'm afraid.

“Goodbye, my dear,” his sister said and kissed him on both cheeks. The Chevalier made a face. She still treated him as if he were a child! But somehow, he could not muster up the appropriate indignation. Life had mistreated him so thoroughly that he felt as if this was merely a small annoyance. 

“Goodbye, Nanette,” he murmured. “Try not to suffocate in our dumb village.” She inclined her head and took their brother's arm. Louis smiled at him in that infuriating way only older brothers could. 

“Remember your promise, brother,” Louis said. The Chevalier rolled his eyes and waved his hand lazily. 

“Yes, yes. I shall help your and father's ambitions along as well as I am able. Now shoo, the carriage and our lovely swampland are waiting for you.” His suffering was obvious enough that they actually left after this, instead of arguing endlessly with him about it. The two could have been adorable, if only they weren't so annoying. He was not jealous of his older brother, at least. The Chevalier would not trade his comfortable life at court for having to watch over peasants in that dingy village for a hundred _Louis d'ors_. Though if his brother had his way, he would come rejoin him at court sooner rather than later. Their father had officially been discharged from his duties as Grand Squire of France, but Louis hoped to win back that responsibility for their house for his very own person. The Chevalier had promised to help him in that, but truly, what influence had he at court anymore, now that he had thrown away all sympathies Monsieur had ever held for him? Only a few friends in the right places to start a rumor or two, but nothing more. There was no power for him, no prospects, no hope. He should have accepted his sister's invitation back home, or accepted his father's desire to make him _abbé_ of Chartres finally; he could've gone there and died in peace, safe from the humiliating spectacle he had made of himself here. 

When his siblings were gone, his room was depressingly quiet again. It was ugly and smaller than he would like his room to be, but he did not find it in himself to care. He had proven himself to be the most foolish of men; it was no wonder Monsieur did not want to have anything to do with him. First he had pushed Monsieur, even after he had made it clear that he did not wish for the Chevalier's presence. Then he had made them both look ridiculous when the wine had practically forced him to offer a dance. The kiss had felt nice, granted, that had been one of his less horrible decisions; the stammering that had followed had been rather embarrassing. And then... The Chevalier wanted to scream whenever he remembered what had happened _then_. Monsieur had asked him to _love_ him. What was that even– what had Monsieur _thought_?! Nothing, presumably! You couldn't just demand that of people! Gentle emotions did not just appear because a King's brother commanded them to. And since the Chevalier definitely had absolutely nothing of his heart invested in the prince, he had spoken true when he had told him that he wouldn't. 

But why had he spoken true? He was an ignorant idiot! He should have just lied, it was not so hard to lie, he had been lying from the moment he had exited his mother's womb! 'I will love you with all my heart' – was that so difficult? No! Yet he hadn't lied. Monsieur had demanded the one thing from him that he found he could not give. His body, oh, that he was willing to give; his time and attention and cock, yes, yes, he could have all these; but not his heart. 

Or so he stubbornly told himself, although the part of him that doubted this truth grew larger each day. He would not have _punched_ Armand de Gramont if there was no true affection for Monsieur; another foolish decision in a long line of many foolish decisions recently. Yet in the heat of the moment, all those thoughts had been far away; he had not known whether he loved Monsieur, or had the potential to love Monsieur, he had panicked and denied everything, as a deer would mindlessly stop in a moment of danger instead of choosing flight, and he had ruined everything. 

Monsieur's voice had been colder than the Christmas snows a few months ago. It was understandable. A man with his qualities was probably not used to rejection: he must react harshly to such. The Chevalier sighed in frustration and ran a hand through his hair. There was no doubt about it. Monsieur hated him now. He did not think he could ever face him again without screaming at his own stupidity, so instead he just stayed holed up in his room for as long as possible. 

The door opened. The Chevalier groaned but did not turn. “Is there anything _else_ ,” he demanded of what he assumed were his siblings rejoining him. Perhaps they had forgotten something. Had they forgotten him, mayhaps? It was not yet too late to come with them and heroically throw himself off a tall cliff in an attempt to hide from his embarrassment. 

“Yes, there is,” and that was _not_ the voice of either his sister or his brother. He turned sharply, just in time to see a guardsman closing the door. The sight of Monsieur had him straighten his back instinctively, but there was no poise left to be saved. He had surely just offended him _again_ with his thoughtless words.

“Your Highness,” the Chevalier said after a few moments had passed, “I had not expected you.”

“People rarely do,” Monsieur answered. Another silence began to stretch between them, uncomfortable and almost painful. The Chevalier shuffled his feet like a timid chicken. 

“I apologize for the state of my ro–” the Chevalier began. 

“My words were ill-chosen–” Monsieur spoke at the very same moment. They both stopped, though, when they realized the other was talking. Monsieur smiled; the Chevalier felt more like climbing out of the window. Instead, he bowed. 

“My words were ill-chosen,” Monsieur repeated. “It was out of place to demand such... to make such far-reaching demands like having you in my bed. The wine had taken hold of my tongue.”

The Chevalier resisted the sudden impulse to look away from the other man. Monsieur understood his error! That was splendid, was it not? No more superfluous demands on his emotional state and they could recommence their kisses that had been so tragically cut short. There, Monsieur was still smiling. He had not destroyed _everything_ , apparently. The thought was so satisfying that his impaired self-confidence took a spirited leap forwards. 

“As it had of my hands,” the Chevalier admitted, “it was not my place to kiss you in such a public location.” 

Monsieur regarded him warily and mumbled something.

“What?” the Chevalier asked and stepped a few feet closer. Monsieur, to his honor, did not evade his gaze either. 

“I liked that you did that,” he murmured again, but this time the Chevalier was close enough to hear. He felt himself smirking before Monsieur had stopped speaking. 

“So did I,” the Chevalier admitted. It had made his heart flutter that night; the wine, Monsieur, half the court watching... to claim in front of all what was rightfully and deservedly his. 

Monsieur took a deep breath. It made the silk of his doublet covering his chest stretch in a mesmerizing way. “I make no obligations,” he said, as if it cost him a great deal of effort, “upon you. You are a free man, Chevalier de Lorraine, I will respect your decisions. Yet my heart has grown increasingly fond of you.” The Chevalier's smirk turned into a dumb smile. “I would ask you without the wine clouding our minds; will you be with me, at least for a while? I can give you a position in my personal household to keep you close; I can–” 

He could do a lot of things, of that the Chevalier had no doubt, but he was not interested in hearing of all these splendid things that awaited him. He opted to instead rush forward and silence the prince with a kiss. 

It was infinitely more pleasing than their last. Less frenzied, less desperate and more gentle, the Chevalier found he enjoyed it in unexpected ways. Monsieur's lips were soft and slightly salty, and more pleasant than every other pair of lips. A slight warmth spread through his chest and his body seemed to float in limbo until they broke apart. The Chevalier followed up the kiss with pressing his lips to the corners of Monsieur's mouth; that made the other man laugh quietly. It was a very nice sound.

“That is a _yes_ , I take it?” Monsieur asked. The Chevalier answered with a laugh. That was what he had wanted for half a year; of course it was a _yes_! As long as he was not required to love _anyone_ and bare himself to Monsieur, as long as he could stay detached and invulnerable, he could do anything! 

“I will immediately make preparations, then. We will have you moved out of this incredibly inappropriate room, of course.” Monsieur scrunched up his nose. The Chevalier wanted to fall to his knees for all the gratitude he felt. “There should be some space in the rooms adjacent to my own chambers.”

“Your Highness, it is an honor,” the Chevalier replied to this image of Eden itself with a wink. “I shall do my duties well, whichever you choose for me.” 

“Then your first duty shall be,” Monsieur said, “to call me Philippe.” 

The Chevalier's eyes widened enthusiastically. _Hah!_ , he thought as he remembered how Raffael had bragged about calling Monsieur by his given name. He had not even needed to fuck him for this privilege! 

“The second duty to kiss you again, Philippe?” the Chevalier replied. The shiver that trailed over Philippe's body did not evade his notice. 

It turned out that he had guessed right about this. 

After Monsieur left his room not much later, the Chevalier let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. That had gone beyond all his expectations. Was it reality? That he should have done everything wrong and nothing right, but still gotten exactly what he had planned? It was only right, if one thought about it – he certainly deserved Monsieur's attention. Maybe Monsieur would even turn out to deserve _his_ attention. And due to the other's promise not to make any more demands on his heart, he would not even have to ponder on that anymore. It did not matter whether there was anything but lust; Monsieur did not care for such things, he merely wanted a willing and witty man in his bed. 

Everything was perfect, he tried to convince himself and forced himself to grin. 

Not everything went as smoothly as Monsieur had predicted, though. First, the Superintendent of Finances, the marquis Nicolas Fouquet, fretted about the addition of another post to his household. Surely even the King's brother did not need a _fifth_ man to take care of his wardrobe, Monsieur quoted him as the Chevalier and he promenaded through the gardens and enjoyed the pleasant spring sun. 

“Obviously, the Marquis does not understand a single thing about fashion,” the Chevalier said and wrinkled his nose.

“This is what I thought too!” Monsieur exclaimed and shook his head. 

“Besides, it is not about the actual work. Get a servant if you want to get dressed, right? It is about esteem,” the Chevalier added. Of course, the payment was a nice addition, but amassing great posts at court was one of the main goals of practically every courtier. “The greater your household, the greater the demonstration of the crown's wealth. It is advantageous to you and your brother both. Talk to your brother. He should understand the importance of decadence.” 

Monsieur made a face at that; a face which the Chevalier would come to call Monsieur's 'my brother is an entitled brat' face over time. Not then, though; he had not quite yet understood the intricacies of fraternal tensions. 

“My brother does not approve of anything I do,” Monsieur replied, his mood turned suddenly sour. “As long as I chose it myself. Least of all surrounding myself with people I feel affection for.” 

Sensing more trouble than he was prepared to handle, the Chevalier took his arm and reaped the beginnings of a smile. 

“Talk to him, for my sake. I cannot bear to be parted from you for long.” 

When Monsieur did not complain again but merely nodded, the Chevalier got the first taste of the power he held over him and would come to crave. 

Even though Monsieur tried his best, the next days remained unsuccessful; and then the Court began to move to St. Germain. It was a stressful time. The Chevalier lost several of his precious handkerchiefs in the process as he oversaw the packing of his meagre belongings. He had no time to see Monsieur, and Monsieur neither time to see him. The King was very merry when they arrived in St. Germain. The Chevalier had never remembered him truly happy in one of the Parisian palaces; only out here, in the country, with acres of forests and only birdsong surrounding them did he ever laugh. 

The Chevalier was not so happy out here. He was not a great hunter, and had no taste for uncultivated nature. Come to think of it, neither had he a taste for cultivated nature. But during winter, at least then nobody would ask him out for impromptu walks, a sacrifice he was only prepared to make for truly sublime reasons. 

He still hadn't seen Monsieur again when a matter with the Queen Mother's health came up and demanded all of the prince's time, and suddenly May had come and gone and the Chevalier had not yet received his post in Monsieur's household. Indeed, they had only seen each other twice during the whole month. Both times, Armand had been with Monsieur, around him, his pretentious gaze flitting between Monsieur and the Chevalier. It had made an honest conversation impossible; and besides, Monsieur's eyes had lain on Armand for the greatest part. The Chevalier did not understand. Had not everything been close to perfect? And moreover, how could he persuade the world to replace Armand's position with him? 

One rainy afternoon, he complained about it to Michel and Raffael. “And now his mother has a cold and that somehow prevents him from talking to Fouquet? I do not believe it,” the Chevalier told them with righteous indignation. He should not be sidelined for that old hag! 

“I have heard the mother is doing better already,” Raffael added, “but that the King has caught a fever.” 

“We will all pray that he shall make a swift recovery,” Michel said hastily. The Chevalier nodded. People fell sick all the time; it was no reason to worry. And besides, if Louis XIV were to die without issue... well, he would be the last to complain. 

“But do you not think it preposterous?” the Chevalier tried to steer the conversation back to _his_ problems. “We barely see each other. And it was going so well.” The other two did not need to know every detail of his blossoming relationship to Monsieur, true; but the Chevalier had told them anyways. It made him feel powerful, in a way. “I cannot comprehend what his problem is.” 

“I think his _problem_ starts with the letter A,” Michel guessed, smiling crookedly. The Chevalier rolled his eyes. “He is infatuated with Armand, and you know it too, Chevalier.” 

“He has lost his appetite for my Duke,” Raffael added. “My Duke says that Armand has bewitched him, body and soul.” 

The Chevalier sighed. “You are saying I need to use witchcraft back? I do not believe in that nonsense. All witches are women; women rarely achieve anything, much less something of this magnitude.” 

Michel nodded. “That _is_ nonsense. But I believe Raffael proposed something else. You have not slept with each other yet, have you? All you told us of were innocent kisses.” 

“I don't know if 'innocent' is the word I would use,” the Chevalier replied, “but no, indeed, we have not lain together.” Truth be told, he considered this specific lack one of the greatest problems that arose from the current situation. Ever since their dance, he had not touched either stableboy nor serving girl, as he was expecting to have his needs filled more properly soon; and was thus getting more dissatisfied every day without Monsieur. 

“That is the answer then,” Raffael said with the air of a wise man. “You need only do that, and if you do it well, your worries will vanish into thin air.” 

The Chevalier nodded, lost in thought. “A valid suggestion. I will think on it.” 

His thinking consisted of one thought: _yes_. He rid himself of the two as quickly as decency allowed it, and as soon as that was done, he made his way to Monsieur's chambers. They were not so far from the King's own, but sufficiently far-off that the brothers would need to cross a distance to see each other. At first, the guard would not let him in, merely shaking his head at every attempt of the Chevalier to convince him. 

“Monsieur has expressedly wished to be left in peace,” the guard just told him again and again. The guardsman was very young, barely a man in the Chevalier's opinion, although his beard was grown quite handsomely. He stood tall, as every guardsman, and towered over him – even if he were so inclined, brute force would not get the Chevalier far. Instead, he would need to use talents that had grown closer to his heart. 

“I will not excite his peace too much,” the Chevalier replied. “Well, that was a lie, to be honest. Nevermind. I will just return to the King then.” He huffed. “He will be disappointed to hear I couldn't give his brother his message.” 

The guardsman looked at him, narrowing his eyes. He was so young and naïve, to believe such a blunt lie! The Chevalier turned to leave.

“Wait,” the guard said, “I will ask him.” He vanished in the room and came out after a minute, gesturing the Chevalier inside. 

The shutters in the anteroom were closed; it was very dark. The heavy smell of myrrh wafted through the air, quite a displeasing smell – it reminded the Chevalier of so many useless hours wasted in church. The scent was accompanied by a sad melody wafting through the room. The only light came from a few candles here and there. His eyes began to itch due to the smoke, but the Chevalier could see well enough to make out the source for the music: a young man with a violin in his hands and his eyes closed. He recognized him. It was the composer who had walked into the King when the Chevalier had first spoken to him. Not far from him, Monsieur reclined on a settee. His eyes were closed and his head thrown back, but his lips moved ever so slightly. 

The Chevalier had not expected to enter such a strange, mysterious world, devoid of light and air and peace but filled with disquieting suspense. 

“That is quite enough, now,” he said loud enough to drown out the music. As expected, the musician stopped and looked at the Chevalier incredulously. “Go on, shoo, my dear. I would have some words with Monsieur. Tête-à-tête, if you would.” 

The musician regarded Monsieur. The prince had opened his eyes but not moved otherwise. 

“Do it,” he croaked. His voice was raw and raspy. No wonder, the Chevalier thought, with no fresh air and only this horrid smell poisoning the air. Myrrh clung to clothes like whores to coin; it would take a week or two until that scent would evaporate! He moved closer and sat down next to Monsieur while the musician left them. 

“Philippe, I would speak to you. It is about...” The words died in his throat when Monsieur turned his head and the Chevalier could see his face. His cheeks were ruddy, his eyes red and his lower lip was quivering. And worse than that, there were actual visible tear streaks on his face. He made a soft, sad sound. 

Monsieur was crying. Monsieur was _crying_. 

Before the Chevalier knew, he slapped Monsieur. It had not been a conscious decision, but it was shocking nevertheless. Whenever his younger brothers had started to cry in front of him, he had slapped them. That had rarely worked and they had only cried that much harder, but at least it had given him a certain amount of relief. However, it seemed to work with Monsieur, who had replaced crying with staring at the Chevalier incredulously. 

He had just slapped the King's brother. 

Oops. Could happen to anyone. The important thing was to not let Monsieur realize what had just happened. 

He took Monsieur's hands and stroked them soothingly. Still the other said not a word. “Now, now, my dear,” the Chevalier told him before he lifted the other's hand to place a soft kiss upon them, “tell me what is the matter.” 

Monsieur did not; he sobbed a bit and the Chevalier awkwardly put one arm around him and rocked him, a gesture he had never performed before. He was not equipped to handle such situations. What was he supposed to do? Truly, this was the greatest trial the Lord could have faced him with. He could handle angry and disappointed people well, but a prince who was so distressed he cried in his arms? That was, he was certain, not part of his duties. Still he waited patiently until Monsieur had found his ability to speech. 

“It is my brother,” he rasped. “They say he has typhus. That he may die. But I am not allowed near him.” Any other time, the Chevalier would have marvelled to be handed such intimate court information on a silver platter. He could wield this knowledge and use it to his advantage. Yet somehow, that thought did not worm its way into his brain: he was too preoccupied with feeling an emotion he had not felt in a very long time. For this reason, he could not name it, but if he had known it better, he would have known it to be pity. 

“... why not?” he heard himself asking dumbly. It made Monsieur devolve into a fit of crying. The Chevalier was reduced to stroking his back with what he hoped desperately were soothing motions. 

“I am his heir! If I fall sick too, the country will be–” he stopped himself and looked at the Chevalier with glazed-over eyes. “In shambles! If we were mere peasants, I could sit at his side and hold his hand, but now they won't let me.” 

He buried his face in the Chevalier's shoulder and kept talking, but was incomprehensible. The Chevalier let him for a while. Maybe that would make him feel better. In that moment, he wanted nothing so much as for Monsieur to stop crying. Not because it was awkward; but because he was obviously very miserable, and somehow, the Chevalier _hated_ that. 

“When we talked last... we had dinner, two days ago...” Monsieur still sobbed but had lifted his head. “I called him an ugly fool who'd never understand anything. Because he had insisted on taking his eggs before me. Such a petty fight! What if those were my last words to him? It makes _me_ the ugly fool!” 

“Oh, my dear, you may be a fool, but you are not ugly,” the Chevalier said the first thing that came to his mind. Incredibly, Monsieur laughed, although that was interrupted by a hiccup. 

“I fear you speak the truth,” he said when he had calmed down again. This time, he did not break out in tears again but only sighed. “I am a great fool to think you are interested in hearing all this.” 

It felt as if Monsieur was erecting invisible walls between them. The Chevalier instinctively hurried to slip past them to stay in the small and beautifully vulnerable space they had inhabited a moment ago. 

“I want to hear _everything_ , Philippe,” he said eagerly as he watched Monsieur's face intently. “I wish to know everything of your life; everything that moves you. I would shoulder your problems as if they were mine and double every happiness by sharing it.” His words sounded sincere even to his own ears; Monsieur certainly seemed to believe him. His whole face lit up and he smiled. 

It was a beautiful smile, the Chevalier found, and rare. Few people were allowed to bask in its glory. 

“If my brother dies, I will be inconsolable,” Monsieur said quietly. The Chevalier sensed a reply was not expected and stayed silent. “They will crown me, but all will hate me. Everyone loves him better than me, even when he's dead. And I will miss him terribly, I know I will. I never wished him dead.” 

“No, of course not,” the Chevalier felt compelled to say; Monsieur's last phrase sounded strong yet pleading for exactly such reassurance

“When we were very small, we played this game...” Monsieur began, and before either of them had noticed, hours had gone by filled with childhood tales and regrets given words. It sounded like a premature eulogy. The Chevalier found it fulfilling. Certainly one of the best conversations he had ever had with anyone, even though it was mostly Philippe who talked and less the Chevalier himself. Usually this was a sign of a boring conversation, yet this time... he did not think a human being had ever allowed him to dwell so close to their core. Philippe had entrusted him with so many secrets, many more than the Chevalier could count, yet he did not wish to use them against him. They had laughed together, and at one point Philippe had begun to cry again; but his tears had dried quickly when the Chevalier, in turn, had divulged one of his own childhood memories. It was refreshing to be this open and honest for once, even though his memories were embellished extensively. They kept touching each other throughout the whole catharsis. It was pleasant, both the contact and the words, and the Chevalier quite forgot his initial objective in coming here. 

He had not even noticed the passage of so much time when the Queen Mother barged into the room only to find her son – perhaps soon to be her only son – sitting inappropriately close with a man she probably did not even know the name of. 

“Philippe, _mon cheri_ ,” she said as she opened the shutters. Only darkness fell into the room. It had been midday when the Chevalier had entered. “Do not huddle in darkness like a common conspirator.” 

“Apologies, mother,” Philippe said and to the Chevalier's disappointment distanced himself from him. The Chevalier, however, only leaned back and splayed his arms on the chaise. “My dear Chevalier,” Philippe added, turning towards him and grasping his hand, “please leave us. I thank you with all of my heart.” 

The Chevalier thought about resisting and being adamant to stay the night, but that was a battle he was destined to lose, he knew. Better give in willingly instead of being defeated. He sauntered out of the room, conscious of the effect he had on the two occupants; Philippe stared after him with a kind of sensitive longing while the Queen Mother scowled.

He returned to his room quickly. On the way, confusion spread within him. He should not have enjoyed that boring conversation! But then, he was not sure 'enjoy' was the right word. It had pleased him; it had felt strangely comfortable. Still, that told him nothing of _why_ he should find it so at all. Conversations the Chevalier enjoyed usually revolved around wine, money or fashion. Best of all those that revolved around all of these; and none had appeared in Philippe's whining about his brother. 

He found he was not even overly disappointed that the comfort had not taken on a more physical form. It would have been nice, yes; but somehow, there was a warmth in his chest that was spreading to his fingertips, and it was enough to fulfill him for now. When he had arrived in his room, he was out of breath. 

“I don't understand,” he told the room in general. Nobody replied; nobody was there. He was all alone. “It was boring. _He_ is boring. Pretty, but boring. Too shy.” He kicked off his shoes but stayed standing upright in the middle of the room. There was no light illuminating the walls. Darkness settled on his shoulders, heavy as a grave. “I don't _understand_ ,” he raised his volume until he was almost yelling. “It makes no sense!” But the warmth in his chest disagreed; it made perfect sense, and the Chevalier knew it. 

He kicked a wooden chair in his frustration. Its leg broke off and his foot began to ache; he howled in frustration. “Fuck!” he yelled, his heart racing madly from his sudden painful agitation. He would not admit it! _Anyone_ could elicit such a maddening warmth! And yet it stubbornly remained, right beneath his heart, magnified a thousandfold when he thought of Philippe's face.

 _Philippe_ , he thought and went quite pale. When had he started calling him by his given name in his thoughts too? It was not right. There should remain a distance between them, or the Chevalier feared he would lose himself. 

He sat down on the floor – the chair was not an option anymore, lacking a leg – and buried his face in his hands. What a horrible situation he found himself in. It was of no use to deny it anymore. His constant preoccupation with Philippe, warmth at the thought of him, the furious jealousy warring with a pulsing desire, and such emotional, intimate acts as calling him by his given name...

One expression might be that he experienced tender feelings for the prince. Another that he had lost his mind. Another... that he was in love. 

The thought – and its implication of sudden and vast vulnerability – was overwhelming. The Chevalier felt his throat ache and tears of anger begin to form in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes: 
> 
> Louis XIV caught a bad fever which was believed to be typhoid in the summer of 1658. Typhoid is extremely uncomfortable. In a time before antibiotics, it had a high mortality rate, and the court thought Louis would die. Hence, both the Queen mother and the courtiers directed their attentions to the next in line, Philippe - apparently the first time he had been shown favor from his mother, who always loved Louis far better, as they shared many similarities. Of course, we all know Louis survived that bout of fever. 
> 
> Courts usually moved from palace to palace in winter and summer. Winter palaces were usually situated in cities, where it would be warmer and better insulated, whereas summer palaces were in the countryside where you could enjoy the good weather (with hunting, swimming, ...). Sometimes there would be multiple moves a year. Louis XIV, who was an outdoorsy type of king, prefered his summer palaces. 
> 
> -
> 
> This chapter was delayed because I am very much struggling with the pacing of no. IV. I've written and rewritten chapter IV a few times but I'm still very dissatisfied. In the meantime, have chapter III and cross your fingers that I'll be able to find a pacing for IV I'm happy with.
> 
> As always, feedback is very appreciated! :)


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